


Freedom

by biblionerd07



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-12
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-01 07:41:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1042170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biblionerd07/pseuds/biblionerd07
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's no longer in chains, but he's not exactly free, either.  Post-series one-shots (loosely connected to one another) about Jesse's struggle to get his life back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

For those brief moments of heady euphoria, where his freedom had made him laugh out loud as tears streamed down his face, Jesse Pinkman hadn’t been the empty shell he’d become in the last six months. But once he stopped the car in front of his house—sitting there innocently, the grass untended and long and the windows dark—his hands were shaking and he was gasping for breath.  
  
What was he supposed to do now? Was he supposed to somehow go back to a normal life? The thought of even speaking to another human made him shiver. And then there was the fact that he had no money. It was almost absurd, how he’d gone from his fat stacks and mad cheddar to nothing at all, and it wasn’t even a result of him smoking everything away. He’d literally tossed his money away and the police had taken what he hadn’t left on random doorsteps throughout Albuquerque. He’d had millions of dollars—literal millions—and now he had nothing.  
  
It was fine. He didn’t want it. He didn’t want anything. He couldn’t even muster up the feeling or the energy to get out of the car and go in the house. He could see the rock where he kept his hide-a-key and just couldn’t care enough to go get it. He felt tears on his face and realized he was crying again. It happened so often he barely registered it anymore. The only time he didn’t cry was when Jack and the rest of the family were around, because he’d learned quickly the consequences of making any noise at all. He even cried in his sleep.  
  
He couldn’t stand being in the same space that had been occupied by anyone in Jack’s crew, so he dragged himself out of the car and up to his doorstep. It was amazing to him that the key was still there in its spot, like the whole world wasn’t completely different since the last time Jesse had lost his keys. He opened the door and everything inside his house was exactly the same. He flipped a light switch out of habit, but of course the power was shut off. He wanted desperately to take a shower, but it just seemed so hard. Did he even have water? He didn’t go to the tap to try. Everything seemed too hard. He just wanted to sleep. He literally crawled up the stairs to his bedroom, so exhausted now he couldn’t stay upright. He wanted to tear off the filthy clothes he was wearing and burn them, never see them—or, more importantly, smell them—again, but just like the shower, it seemed too hard. He crawled between the sheets, sighing at how soft the bed was, and closed his eyes.  
  
Jesse had no idea if he’d actually slept that night. His consciousness was hazy at best these days, and if he’d slept at all, he’d woken so often the sleep wasn’t worth much. Every sound put him on alert. The bed was too soft after six months on a concrete floor. His whole body ached and burned. And every time he closed his eyes, he saw Andrea collapsing in a heap on her front porch and he trembled and cried.  
  
Jesse waited as long as he could before he pulled himself out of that bed. He didn’t change or shower or eat anything. He avoided his reflection in the mirror when he went to the bathroom. He didn’t want to see the damage.  
  
He put his spare key on the key ring with the Aryan’s car and drove himself to the DEA headquarters. He didn’t hesitate at all as he went to the front desk and asked to speak to whoever was in charge of the Heisenberg case. He ignored the people gaping at him. His voice was hoarse and his throat burned. He had no idea when he’d last spoken out loud, but he woke up screaming enough to know he’d probably damaged his vocal chords permanently.  
  
“Why do you want to talk to him?” The detective was eyeing him with alarm in his eyes. He probably thought Jesse was on a hit job or something.  
  
“I’m Jesse Pinkman.” He said, looking away from the detective’s face but hearing the sharp intake of breath anyway, most likely making his next sentence unnecessary: “I worked with Heisenberg.”  
  
He was sitting at a table out of the way while the cops figured out what was going on and how to handle it. It wasn’t even an interrogation room, which confused him. He remembered his own words from so long ago; _I’m a criminal, yo._ He was used to the interrogation room, but this was more like a break room. There was a coffee maker and a bunch of paper cups on a table to his left. No one was speaking to him. They stood apart from him and spoke in hushed voices, glancing at him.  
  
“Mr. Pinkman?” A young woman took the seat across from him. “I’m Lindsey Burrows. I’m the prosecutor.” She couldn’t have been a day older than Jesse himself.  
  
“Okay.” He didn’t know what he was supposed to say.  
  
“Did the officers advise you of your rights?” She asked.  
  
“Um…no. They haven’t said anything to me. No one has.” He found he didn’t really care. He didn’t care what happened to him.  
  
“Okay. You’re not under arrest.” The girl—woman? lady? She was so young, but obviously a professional—told him.  
  
“I’m not?”  
  
“That’s not to say you’re not being charged with anything.” She explained, and Jesse only shrugged. That’s what he’d intended.  
  
“But we know you cooperated with Agent Schrader.” Jesse closed his eyes at the sound of that name, trying hard not to picture Jack shooting him. “His wife mentioned that from the beginning, when he first went missing, and your taped testimony was found at the scene.”  
  
 _The scene._ Jesse had to struggle not to throw up when she said that. The scene of the crime? Which one?  
  
“There was also evidence that you were not a…ah, a willing participant in the events that took place.” Jesse stopped listening. She was talking—telling him the evidence they found that helped him—and he had to tune her out or he would break apart into a million pieces. Like he needed to be reminded that hadn’t been willing? Like he needed her to tell him there was an “elaborate chain system” in the lab or that he’d been held captive in a cell?  
  
“So what happens?” He interrupted her. He still didn’t care what happened to him, but he had to make her stop listing the horrible conditions he’d lived in for six months in a calm, logical voice. It was making his ears ring.  
  
“Well, we’re going to offer you a deal.” She took a breath to keep talking, but Jesse was shaking his head.  
  
“I don’t have anything.” He said, staring at a water mark on the table. “Everything is in that video.” Everything except the last six months, but he certainly wasn’t talking about that.  
  
“You don’t have to give us anything.” Her voice was gentle for the first time, instead of flat and clinical, and Jesse felt his hands start to shake. He’d thought the emotionless was bad, but now her pity felt worse.  
  
“You’ll plead guilty to some charges. You’ll get a prison sentence but you won’t serve time unless you do something wrong. You’ll pay some fines and do probation. As long as you do what you’re supposed to, you won’t go to jail.” She paused, pursed her lips for a second, seemingly debating her next sentence. “Before he died, Mr., ah, _Heisenberg_ , gave a statement to police confessing to everything.”  
  
Jesse felt a ringing in his ears. Was he going to be under Mr. White’s shadow for the rest of his life? Even after he was dead and gone, that old bastard kept popping up.  
  
 _He told me not to give up on family, and I didn’t._ Mr. White was there next to him for a flickering second, giving Jesse his special look for when Jesse had actually done something right. Jesse wanted to scream and he looked at the prosecutor to avoid seeing Mr. White.  
  
“Lindsey.” A terse voice interrupted them. It was a frowning man in a cheap suit. “Can I speak to you?”  
  
Jesse didn’t move as she got up and moved over to the side of the room. He didn’t feel a single emotion. He stared at the table.  
  
“Are you seriously offering a plea deal?” Cheap suit asked.  
  
“He cooperated with the DEA.” The girl pointed out. Jesse was pretty sure they didn’t realize he could hear them, but then again he was used to being treated like he wasn’t there.  
  
“And the agents he cooperated with are both dead.” Jesse didn’t like this guy.  
  
“There's no evidence he had anything to do with that. Barry, you can’t tell me Schrader didn’t give this guy some kind of immunity—”  
  
“Not that we have record of.”  
  
“That doesn’t matter! You and I both know that.”  
  
The guy sighed. “This guy was Heisenberg’s accomplice. You wanted more opportunity, better cases, and I’m giving you a career case here. You’re going to plead it out? We could put him away until he dies three times.”  
  
Jesse’s heart started to pound. He’d thought he didn’t care what happened to him, but he suddenly found he couldn’t handle the thought of going to jail. He couldn’t be locked in a box again. His palms were sweating and he could hear his own breath in his ears.  
  
“Barry, are you kidding me? You want to take _that_ guy to trial? Look at his face. Even Gilson’s smart enough to put him on the stand, testify about being held captive, all the beatings he took. You read the file. We take him to trial, we’re going down. Plus we’ve got a confession from the mastermind taking the blame for everything.”  
  
“You could still put jail time in the plea agreement! The confession was dubious.” Captain Dickwad was determined to go down with his ship and Jesse hated him, hated her, hated the officers staring at him like he was an animal. Six months ago, Jesse would have lashed out. He would have risen up, the attitude coming off him in waves, calling them names and letting them know just how he felt. But he couldn’t find the will to speak up.  
  
“You can see how swollen his wrists are from here. None of the officers will cuff him. And his case is going to Judge Watkins. He’s a bleeding heart. He’d alter it from the bench."  
  
“Lindsey—”  
  
“Barry, you gave me the case. You have the ultimate authority, but you said you trusted me. And this is what I’m doing.”  
  
She came back to her seat and Jesse looked up, cutting her off before she could explain anything. “I heard everything. I don’t care. That’s fine. I’ll do whatever you want. Don’t send me to prison.”  
  
She looked apologetic and Jesse was just tired. He couldn’t believe how hard it was to be around people, especially these people—these people were untainted and he felt like just being in the same room with him would ruin them somehow.  
  
“Do you want to call your lawyer?”  
  
Jesse’s mind flashed to Saul, bleeding and scared, and the feeling of pointing a gun at his face. “I don’t have a lawyer.” He said.  
  
“We can appoint one—”  
  
“I don’t need a lawyer. I’ll do whatever you want.”  
  
“Mr. Pinkman…”  
  
“Can you just tell me what to do?” He asked. She stared at him for a minute, lips pursed.  
  
“My office will write up the agreement and send you a copy.” She said finally. “Read it. The whole thing. You’ll get notice of a court date where you can show up and the judge will tell you your rights. You’ll have to tell him you don’t want a lawyer and then we’ll all talk about the plea agreement.”  
  
He nodded and stood up, so tired he wanted to drop. He was going to go back to bed. Maybe forever.  
  
“Mr. Pinkman.” She stopped him just before he stepped outside. “Turning yourself in was the right thing to do.”  
  
He didn’t respond. He had nothing to say.


	2. Chapter 2

Part of Jesse’s probation was volunteer work, and the prosecutor—Lindsey, as she’d told him to call her—had gotten him a spot working at the community center with “at-risk” kids. Most of them just seemed poor but he found out a good percentage already had run-ins with the law before they got labeled.

That was where Jesse saw the little red-head kid again.

Every afternoon, he got two hours off work to go do art projects and hang out with little kids. If there was anything that even slightly helped heal him, it was those kids. Most of them were punks with bad attitudes, sure, but Jesse couldn’t begrudge them that. He knew how it felt to be angry all the time and to feel like adults didn’t get you. ( _Maybe you won’t_ let _them get you_ , Mr. White argued back.) But one thing most kids liked was doing some goofy art project, and Jesse was laid-back and cool enough with them that they liked him. His favorite was the young kids, because they were still so innocent. He worried about tainting them, but he figured he spent little enough time with them that it would be okay.

It happened on a Wednesday afternoon. A social worker came dragging him in the building. He was a lot cleaner, but Jesse recognized that red hair and the vacant eyes. He figured he’d never forget that face. Jesse couldn’t figure out how he was feeling—he was glad to see the kid was clean, looked well-fed, at least, and obviously not living with his junkie parents anymore in that awful house, but Jesse also felt…he wasn’t sure. This kid was a ghost from his past and Jesse was trying so hard to outrun all those ghosts.

“This is Jeremy.” The social worker said. Jeremy—Jesse didn’t believe the name fit the kid, but he didn’t really have anything else to call him, besides maybe “Spooge Junior” and that didn’t seem like a great idea—was staring at him intently. “He can’t talk.” She explained, and Jesse frowned at her.

“What do you mean?” He asked.

She went off on a long explanation about childhood trauma—yeah, Jesse thought, I know—and how he didn’t communicate because no one had taught him how, and the part that really made Jesse angry was when she said, so flippantly, “He’s not intellectually present.”

“What do you mean?” Jesse repeated, but this time he was annoyed.

“As far as we can estimate, he is around seven years old, but he has the intelligence of a toddler. He doesn’t understand anything but the most basic conversation.”

Jesse bristled. Why was she talking about him like he wasn’t standing right next to her? Jeremy’s face didn’t change, but Jesse knew he was listening, and he knew Jeremy could understand them. Maybe it was their history together, maybe it was the fact that Jesse knew how it felt to be labeled stupid early on—he didn’t like this lady.

_She’s just doing her job_ , Mr. White lectured him. _He sure doesn’t seem like he’s all there._

“I’m sure he’s very intelligent.” Jesse shot back angrily, bending down to be face-to-face with Jeremy. “You want to draw some pictures?” Jesse asked gently.

He just stared at Jesse, not making a sound, but Jesse knew he was listening. He could see it in the kid’s eyes.

“He only draws two things, over and over.” The social worker cut in. Jesse had almost forgotten she was there. He'd been arguing with Mr. White. He was so unhinged it wasn't even funny. “One is a graphic depiction of his father’s death, which was what led to his removal from the home—it was at his mother’s hands.”

Jesse shuddered. He’d hoped so hard the kid hadn’t gone back inside that house after he’d carried him out and left him there but it sounded like he must’ve. No one should have to see that, least of all a scared, starving little kid.

“The other is a man playing peek-a-boo.”

Jesse’s head snapped up to look at the social worker then. “What?” He asked.

“He won’t play the game,” she said with a bewildered shrug. “He just draws it. A man covering his face, and then a man not covering his face, smiling. We can’t figure out what it means.”

Jesse and the kid stared at each other a minute longer before Jeremy reached out and took Jesse’s hand. Jesse looked up at the social worker, and she looked shocked.

“I’ve never seen him take someone’s hand first.” She was looking at Jesse like he was some kind of saint and it was making him want to barf. He decided his safest course of action was to focus on the kid.

“Let’s go draw some pictures,” he said, leading the little guy to the art table. The whole table was covered in paper, so the kids could go nuts and not worry about making a mess on the table, and there sheets of paper—white, colored, cardboard, whatever—and boxes of broken crayons and colored pencils. The box of markers was new, because Jesse couldn’t stand the dried-out ones. He’d bought four boxes of markers, glue, and glitter from his own salary. Kids shouldn’t have to color with nothing.

The kid let go of Jesse’s hand and surveyed the colors seriously before selecting blue. How could anyone think this kid was stupid? He knew exactly what was going on. Jeremy grabbed a stray piece of white, unlined paper and set to work.

After a few minutes of Jesse alternating between drumming on the table and helping other kids spray glitter all over everything, Jeremy was done. He turned those somber eyes on Jesse, tilted his head for a minute, and then covered his eyes with his hands. He pulled his hands away and softly whispered, “Peek-a-boo.”

Jesse could feel tears in his eyes. The kid definitely remembered him. He wasn’t really supposed to touch the kids, but Jesse couldn’t help hugging the little guy for a second. Jeremy clung to his neck and Jesse remembered wrapping him in a blanket on the front porch.

“I’m hungry.” Jeremy said, the only other thing Jesse had ever heard him say.

“Let’s go get a snack,” Jesse suggested, his voice strangled from the tears he was fighting. Maybe he’d done something right. He’d called 9-1-1 and gotten the cops to come find the kid. Maybe he’d helped get the kid in a better place.

When the social worker came back for Jeremy, Jesse asked about his living situation. He’d dared to hope for a few bright seconds that he’d be able to take Jeremy home, feed him, play with him, get him talking, before he remembered he was a felon. No one would want him in charge of a kid without supervision. Even here, he was only in charge of art for two hours a day and he had a community center worker circling the table like a vulture every second of those two hours.

“He lives in a group home.” The social worker told him. “He’s been through a lot of foster homes, but he’s a lot to take on. His placements never last long.”

Jesse wanted to cry again. So he hadn’t helped the kid that much. Sure, he was away from Spooge and his lady, but he wasn’t exactly getting the love Jesse had envisioned. Just then, the kid was dumping glitter into a splash of glue on the paper-covered table and swirling it with his hand. His eyes were bright in his version of a smile.

“Will he keep coming here?” Jesse asked desperately.

“Oh, I’d say definitely.” She smiled at him then. “You got him to talk. And look—he drew something new.”

Jesse looked down at the table, where two stick figures, one tall and one short, were holding hands. Jesse was positive it was a picture of the two of them and he felt himself crying then, not just tearing up but actually crying. The social worker was beaming at him.

“You’re really good with these kids,” she praised him. “Have you ever thought of becoming a social worker?”

He wanted to laugh, because even assuming he could afford and make it through school, he’d never pass a background check for a job.

“I’m doing community service for a felony,” he said flatly, and watched her face go from smiling to concern in under a second. She took Jeremy away, and Jesse felt like he deserved her fear of him. He was the bad guy.


	3. Chapter 3

It was the last day of his probation. He was walking into his drug court “graduation” and his palms were sweating. He’d kept his head down and done everything he was supposed to for 18 months. He’d gone to the drug classes, gone to the shrink, picked up trash on the side of the road, and kept a job—a legit job, above-ground, getting paid and paying taxes and not making or selling drugs. He was still clean and sober. He’d even stopped smoking cigarettes. He’d taken up running with some of the guys he met in drug court, through some organization that promoted addicts playing sports or whatever. Physically, he was the healthiest he’d ever been.

Mentally was a different story, but that was to be expected. He didn’t sleep much. The nightmares woke him up or he stayed awake from fear of them. The shrink had given him sleeping pills and he’d flushed every last one of them because he knew he’d get addicted and he knew he was one dark night away from taking a handful and just drowning. He didn’t quite want to live yet, but he sure as hell didn’t want to die.

Being around people was so hard for him. He’d always worn his heart on his sleeve and now people considered him a morose guy. He’d never been known as morose before. He’d always been goofy, dumb, maybe, but lighthearted—maybe a little too emotional, but not morose. He’d overheard one of his coworkers call him that and he couldn’t get it out of his head. _Go through my hell and we’ll see who’s morose_ , he thought, but he didn’t say anything. Not talking was just easier these days.

Worse than being around people was being alone. He didn’t have to be asleep for his nightmares to pop up, because most of his nightmares were memories. He’d be eating whatever food he’d cook up for himself, alone, with all the lights on in his house because damn if he’d ever sit in the dark again, and Mr. White’s ghost would come keep him company.

Mr. White.

Jesse still didn’t know how he felt about Mr. White or the fact that he was dead. The shrink always wanted to “explore that relationship” but Jesse always told him to go to hell. He didn’t say much during their sessions anyway, but one sure-fire way to piss him off was to bring up Walter White, the great Heisenberg.

Jesse hated him. Jesse missed him. Jesse hated that he missed him. He hated that some nights he wasn’t sure if he was crying because of everything Mr. White had done to him or because Mr. White was gone. Maybe it was in his best interest to tell the shrink everything, but he couldn’t. Everything was tangled, his feelings were in knots, and he couldn’t even find the end to give to the shrink to untangle. It hadn’t been all bad, he’d remember some days. Their days of cooking in the RV had almost been fun sometimes. And Mr. White had saved him more times than he could count—literally saved his life. Sometimes, maybe most of the time, it was to save his own skin, too, but Jesse had a dim memory of Mr. White half-carrying him out of that drug den, sending him to rehab, letting him stay at the condo while he got back on his feet. But Jane.

_Jane._

Jesse shied away from even thinking about her. At least he could channel his rage to send Mr. White away. But with Jane there was only hurt. Her ghost never came to eat dinner with him, and he wished she would while also desperately praying she wouldn’t. Her life would have been so much better without him.

Andrea came to him sometimes, but he hid from her because she only asked about Brock and he could only tell her that he had no idea what had happened to the sweet, quiet boy. He always apologized to her, but her solemn face never changed and she asked if Brock was okay. Sometimes she asked if Jesse was okay and Jesse cried and covered his face with his hands and she went away. The only one who didn’t go away when he cried was Mr. White, and Jesse didn’t care to spend time piecing that apart.

He knew he was crazy.

The only times he was happy were when he was volunteering at the community center. He’d done most of his community service on the trash crew, in the orange jumpsuit on the side of the road and everything, but he’d won some kind of cosmic lottery he didn’t deserve in getting that spot at the community center. He’d agreed to keep volunteering there after his probation was up because leaving those kids would rip out whatever was left of his heart.

“Congratulations, Jesse.” The drug court coordinator was beaming at him, handing him his “diploma”, but Jesse could see the pity on her face and he wanted to run away. He smiled like he was supposed to, posed for a picture that he didn’t plan on getting a copy of, and beat a hasty retreat out of the room. His hands were shaking. People were acting like he was such a good person now, but he’d never gotten Gale’s blood off his hands.

“Mr. Pinkman!” It was the lawyer from when he’d turned himself in. She’d been the one handling his probation. She’d been the one who helped him find his job with a carpenter who was big on giving ex-cons a second chance.

“Jesse,” she was smiling. “Congratulations.”

He felt awkward. “Thank you.” That sentiment was pretty sincere. “I, um…you really helped me.”

She had, technically—she’d kept him out of jail and he really did enjoy his job. Making chairs was surprisingly artistic and he got to recreate that safe haven of making the perfect box. Her smile widened and Jesse felt a little bad for her then. How often did people thank the lawyer who put them on probation? She really had done a lot for him.

“So, listen, I was thinking…if you ever need anything—I mean, I can’t represent you if you have any run-ins with the law, not that I’m saying you will…” She bit her lip, embarrassed, and handed him her card. It took him half a second longer than it should’ve to realize what was happening and another half a second longer than it should’ve to respond. He took her card and he even smiled how he thought he was supposed to, but as soon as he got out of the building he threw her card in the trash. He’d never call her. She was a good person, and he was poison.


	4. Chapter 4

He was sitting in his car, staring at the house in front of him. He’d been there for forty-five minutes. He needed to go in. He knew it, but somehow he wasn’t quite ready. It was going to take so much out of him, emotionally, and he was running dangerously low on emotional strength these days already. He saw Mr. White sitting in the passenger seat, chiding him for being weak, reminding him he was a blowfish. Jesse flipped him off and dragged himself up to the door. His hand was shaking as he knocked.

“ _Jesse_!”

“Hi, Mom.” They stared at one another for a minute, and Jesse felt like cutting and running, but he wouldn’t let himself. He hadn’t seen his mother in years.

“Oh, sweetie, come in.” She pulled him into a hug and Jesse almost started to cry. He was such a pussy these days.

“Um, I wanted to show you this.” He was a little embarrassed, but he handed her the drug court diploma. Her eyes were full of tears.

“I’m so proud of you, Jesse.” She ran a hand through his hair, a little longer than he normally wore it, and smiled at him, the tears spilling down her cheeks. “We thought you were dead.” She told him softly, and part of him was surprised by the pain he saw in her face. He’d always felt he was more of a nuisance and a burden to his parents than anything, that they’d be glad to be rid of him, but he could see now he’d been over-dramatic and selfish. He’d been so young.

Funny how he’d aged so much in such a short time.

“Some officers came looking for you, they said a DEA agent’s wife said you were working with them and he went missing, and that drug dealer killed him, and we thought…” She trailed off and Jesse closed his eyes for a second before pasting on a smile.

“I’m alive.” He said, but he sounded unconvinced. Her eyes lingered on the scar on his face and somehow he felt she could see the hollowness in his eyes, but she only hugged him again and didn’t say anything.

The back door opened and Jesse felt his stomach clench as he recognized his father’s heavy footsteps. His father stopped dead at the sight of him and Jesse hunched his shoulders, an instinct he’d picked up during his time locked up with Todd and Jack, trying to make himself invisible. His dad rushed forward and Jesse backed away a little, but his dad wrapped him up in a hug and Jesse really did break down this time, remembering the last time someone had hugged him—Mr. White, absolutely manipulating him and Jesse had known it but hadn’t been able to stop himself from accepting the hug and crying, just like he couldn’t stop himself now.

He stayed for dinner, and Jake had hugged him when he’d come home from soccer practice. Jake was a teenager now, wiry from sports and taller than Jesse by a few inches. The house seemed so different than he remembered. No one asked Jake about his grades. He apparently wasn’t playing the little flute or whatever anymore. Jesse didn’t say much, and when he was getting ready to leave, their parents actually left him alone with Jake.

“Did something bad happen to you?” Jake blurted, in the way only younger siblings can.

Jesse sighed. “Yeah, kid.” He rubbed his eyes. “Real bad.”

Jake just stared for a long moment, neither brother saying anything. “I’m really glad you came back.” He finally said, not looking at Jesse as he said it. “Mom said you were…” He shrugged.

Jesse shrugged too. “Still alive.”

Jake nodded. “Can we hang out sometime?” He sounded like the little boy Jesse remembered, toddling along behind him from room to room in the house, asking if Jesse would play with him.

Jesse actually smiled for real. “Yeah, bro. We’re gonna chill.” Jake smiled too and started to go upstairs to his room. “Hey.” Jesse called after him. Jake turned back around. “You staying outta trouble? You, uh…” Jesse wanted to know that his little brother wasn’t following his footsteps.

“I’m not smoking any skunk weed, if that’s what you’re asking.” Jake rolled his eyes. “I’m big on soccer now.”

“That’s good.” Jesse said, watching his little brother’s back head up the stairs. “That’s really good.”

He accepted left-overs from his mom and stopped with his hand on the doorknob. “Um…I’m sorry.” He said quickly, knowing he probably needed to say more but not knowing how. Both his parents had tears in their eyes but were smiling. His mom pulled him in for a hug. He couldn’t remember getting so many hugs from his parents in his whole life.

“I’m so glad you’re here.” She whispered in his ear, and somehow it was everything he needed to hear. The fences weren’t completely mended—the issues he had with his parents had started even before his drug use had—but it was a start. When he got home, he sketched out a design for a box he wanted to make for his mom, a box like the one he’d made in high school. He wasn’t going to trade this one for weed, he told Mr. White, who was sitting beside him.

“I’m going to give this one to her for real.” He said confidently.

_See, you’re good at plenty of things besides cooking, son_ , Mr. White said proudly, and Jesse felt himself teetering on the line he always came back to with Mr. White, the line of love and hate, loyalty and betrayal. In some ways, Mr. White had been more his father than his real father. His real father had never believed he had potential. His real father had always thought he was a burnt-out junkie, no good for anything.

But his real father had never made him kill someone. Or tried to kill him. Or watched his girlfriend choke to death in bed next to him.

The pencil in his hand snapped and Jesse covered his face with his hands. It always came back to this.


	5. Chapter 5

He was grocery shopping, like buying actual food, not just Funyons and Pop-Tarts. He could now cook a full meal besides breakfast. His mom taught him how to make her green-beans and he ignored the twinge of memory from that hellish dinner so long ago.

He was contemplating in front of the eggplants, wondering if he should give that a try, when someone to his left sucked in a breath so hard and fast he turned to make sure whoever it was hadn’t just croaked in the aisle.

It was Marie Schrader.

She was staring at him without breathing, looking like someone had just punched all the air out of her lungs, and she’d dropped the head of lettuce she’d been holding. Jesse felt himself shaking and didn’t know what to do.

He picked up the lettuce and gently placed it in her cart.

They stared at one another silently. Jesse felt his shoulders hunching. He had gotten her husband killed. She had been nice to him—the first person to really be decent to him in a long time, even if it was just a hot mug of coffee during what felt like a nightmare—and he’d led her husband into a shallow desert grave.

“I’m sorry.” He blurted, not sure if he was sorry for getting her husband killed, being alive, or scaring her in the grocery store. She just kept staring at him, her eyes filling with tears. She was still wearing her wedding ring. Jesse looked away, wishing she’d just yell at him.

“You’re alive.” She finally said.

“I’m sorry.” Jesse repeated, this time definitely meaning for being alive.

“I’m glad you’re alive.” She whispered. Jesse just looked at her. Why the hell would she be glad about that? If he’d just let Mr. White kill him in the Plaza like the original plan, her husband would still be alive and Mr. White would be in jail.

_Jesse, I’d be dead by now either way._ Mr. White whispered in his ear. Jesse shook him off and focused on Mrs. Schrader.

“I’m glad someone got away from Walt.” She explained sadly. She’d probably be sadder if she knew how untrue her statement really was. “But…” She had a lot of questions. Jesse was starting to feel panicked. He couldn’t talk about this. She wasn’t going to ask him questions in the grocery store, was she?

She shook her head, like she could see his thoughts, and smiled a wistful smile. “I’m guessing you didn’t get out unharmed.” She said softly. “I get that. None of us did. But is your life better now?”

Was his life better?

He wasn’t afraid anyone was going to kill him in the middle of the night. He’d watched his little brother score the game-winning goal at a soccer game. He ate dinner with his family once a month. Jeremy came into the community center every day and now ran in with a real smile and shouted, “Jesse!” He was being asked to do custom woodworking jobs. He could run 5 miles without stopping to walk. He didn’t look over his shoulder for police following him or worry about his double life. A comic he’d drawn had been featured in some local news rag under a fake name. Mr. White was dead.

But he didn’t have friends. He had seen Skinny Pete and Badger the day before and it had been strained and awkward. Without drugs, the three of them didn’t have much in common. Jesse couldn’t talk to people. He flinched when anyone came too close to him. He couldn’t talk to women and only slept with ghosts. He didn’t actually sleep. He had scars all over his body. He ached to know what had happened to Brock. He cried for Drew Sharp. He cried for Gale. He cried for himself. He cried all the time. _Mr. White was dead._

Was that a negative or a positive?

“I don’t know.” He murmured, hot tears pricking his eyes, and Mrs. Schrader put a hand on his shoulder, making him jump a little because he wasn’t anticipating it and hadn’t given himself time to prepare.

“I think I know what you mean.” She said. She left her cart in the middle of the aisle and turned and left. Jesse watched her and tried to get his emotions under control.

He didn’t get any eggplant.


	6. Chapter 6

Jesse needed to know what had happened to Brock. It was the only thing that kept him up at night besides his nightmares and his ghosts. Brock was a question mark. He’d thrown away the lawyer’s card but it was pretty easy to find her on Google. He felt bad that he was going to use her, but he had to know.

_It’s not wrong to want to know how he’s doing_ , Mr. White assured him.

“I’m not going to ask her for anything besides this.” Jesse vowed to Mr. White.

_I know you’re not. You don’t like manipulating people._

Jesse thought of the girl at the gas station he’d manipulated into taking crystal as payment for gas and his stomach clenched. What had happened to that girl? She was probably dead, too. Most people Jesse came in contact with were.

“I can’t promise I’ll find anything.” Lindsey warned him when he’d finally quit arguing with himself and called.

“I know.” Jesse said, but he felt actual hope inside him for one of the first times in years. It was almost painful, like he was sitting on glass because he was waiting, just waiting, thinking _this could be the best news_ or _I could find out I’ve ruined his life worst of all_. And his hope was rewarded 12 days later. He’d been itching to call her again, but he refused to hound her. Maybe if she never got back to him he’d take it as a sign from the universe to leave Brock alone.

“He lives with his grandmother at the address you gave me.” Lindsey told him.

“They still live in that house?” Jesse blurted. He didn’t correct Lindsey that it wasn’t Brock’s grandmother but Andrea’s. He was so relieved they had stayed in Andrea’s new, quiet neighborhood. Her grandma hadn’t lived in a nice part of town and he was so glad Brock wasn’t back there.

“Yeah, that’s the address listed with the school. There’s a cold case on the girl, um…Andrea? She disappeared almost three years ago.”

Jesse clenched his teeth and rested his head against the wall. “No body?” He choked out.

“No, a body was never recovered. The little boy woke up one morning and she was just gone.” After a pause, she asked tentatively, “Jesse…do you know what happened to her?”

Jesse was gasping for breath. She could obviously tell the answer was yes.

“Jesse.” Her voice was deadly serious. “Don’t tell me anything that could—”

“I didn’t hurt her!” He burst out.

_You didn’t_ , Mr. White agreed. _That wasn’t your fault, son. This girl shouldn't be thinking you'd do something like that._

_But I_ have _done things like that,_ Jesse thought.

“Okay.” Lindsey sounded relieved. “But you know who did?”

Jesse was crying now, his default setting these days, it seemed. “It was the same people…the same…”

“The same people who hurt you?” Her voice was so gentle Jesse wanted to scream and for some reason that made him stop crying.

“Yes.” He said dully.

She sighed and he thought she was probably wondering if the list of dead would ever end. _Join the club_ , he thought bitterly.

"How do you know?" She asked, and Jesse was silent for a long time, mustering the words. He knew he had to tell her. Did she need like...evidence? Wasn't that the way lawyers operated? But he didn't have any evidence. Testimony, at least? He told himself he had to say it.

"I saw." He had planned to explain more, but his voice wouldn't come out.

"You saw." Lindsey said slowly. "And they..." She was determined to get the full story and Jesse hated her a little for making him talk about it. Then he felt bad, because he'd asked her to help him.

"Shot her. They shot her. In the head. To punish me."

There was a long pause. He waited for judgement, for more questions. “I can have an officer notify her family.” She finally said softly. “They can get some closure.”

Jesse hated that word, _closure_. It didn’t mean anything. He knew what had happened to all these people, and it didn’t make a damn difference. But he also knew he owed it to Andrea, to her grandma, to Brock, to let them know. He wished he could do it himself, so he could see Brock, get a fist-bump and a shy smile, but he knew he could never see Brock again.

“Okay.” He said. “Do you think…I mean…could they look around the compound?”

“Look…?”

“Look for Andrea.” His voice was tight and strained as he imagined her graceful limbs tangled over one another in a hole somewhere. He shuddered at the thought of Todd’s hands on her arms, dragging her body, probably caressing her smooth skin.

_Don’t picture that_ , Mr. White commanded him. _Try not to think about it._

“Jesse, they did a scan of the surrounding area during the initial investigation. I don’t…I don’t know where else her body would be.”

“No, but like…if she was buried…”

“Jesse, they used equipment that would show them a body underground.”

Jesse moaned, because then he knew, could picture a barrel full of acid and Andrea’s beautiful hair he’d loved so much.

“Acid.” He choked out, and he couldn’t say anything else. He’d talked about the acid in his confession tape and he knew she’d understand what he was saying. He hung up, held his head, and screamed, tugging at his hair.

Andrea’s ghost never came back to him, and he couldn’t decide if he was happy or sad about it.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone! I think there will be about 3 more chapters after this (so a total of 10) and then I'll let go.
> 
> ...of this story line. :)

He was sitting at a bar, nursing the same beer he’d had for over an hour now. He didn’t actually like beer that much. He preferred pot but he’d promised himself, his parents, everyone, that he’d given up crime, even just smoking weed, and beer could at least take off the edge. Sometimes if he drank two or three beers he could sleep without any nightmares.

But this bar was depressing as shit because everyone else there looked like they could’ve been customers of his old product and it was making his hands shake. He was pretty sure he even recognized one guy and he ducked whenever the dude looked his direction.

He paid for his half-drunk beer and was gathering his jacket from the back of his chair when he noticed a girl walk out the door. He’d noticed her earlier, and she was pretty, pretty enough that maybe once upon a time he would’ve sauntered over and smiled at her, bit his lip, raised an eyebrow, struck up some stupid conversation to hear her voice, but he was too broken now and her hair was dark and curly and sometimes she tilted her head in a way that reminded him of Andrea and he couldn't go over there.  
  
A second later, a guy got off the stool next to him and walked a little too quickly to the door. Jesse had noticed him staring at the girl, too—straight up staring, not just taking quick little glances like Jesse. Jesse felt his stomach clench and he followed the guy, slow enough to avoid being noticed.

It took one second in the cold night air for Jesse to know the guy was following the girl. He was dogging her steps, not even trying to stay back. It looked like the girl was planning on walking wherever she was going and this dude was set on heading there, too. Jesse’s heart started to pound and for the first time since he’d gotten away from Todd and his uncle, he longed for the weight of a gun in his hand.

_You were hoping something like this would happen._ Mr. White accused. _That’s why you went to that hole-in-the-wall._

Jesse brushed it off angrily, but it was kind of true. He’d taken to prowling some shady haunts, thinking maybe he could teach someone a lesson. It was a sort of penance—if he could save someone, maybe he wasn’t such a bad person.

_You’re not a bad person,_ Mr. White insisted, but how many times had Jesse heard him say that and then turn around and change his mind?

“You’re the one who told me I was going to hell.” Jesse muttered.

“Hey, girl.” The dude was right next to her now and Jesse saw her eyes go wide. His breath sped up because he knew now—he knew how it felt to be scared of every person who got within two feet of you, to hesitate around strangers, to look over your shoulder every minute of every day.

“Can I help you?” She asked boldly, but Jesse saw her eyes darting around.

“Oh, I’m sure you can.” The man laughed and Jesse felt sick, because it was the worst kind of laugh, the sick, cruel laugh of someone who didn’t care, and suddenly Jesse had to stop and hunch over for a second because he could hear Jack and he could feel phantom kicks at his ribs.

“Look, buddy, you better leave me alone.” Her voice wasn’t quite as strong as before, but her head was high and she was staring him down and Jesse felt his stomach clench into knots again because it reminded him so much of Jane.

“Hey, now, don’t be nasty, girlie. I just want to talk to you.” He got up close, in her space, and put his hands on her hips. She pushed his hands away.

“Do not touch me.”

“Yo, she said beat it!” Jesse called, not quite jogging but heading to where they were fast. It was a little hard to look intimidating when you were walk-jogging but he didn't have a lot of options.

“Who the hell are you?” The guy narrowed his eyes but Jesse knew how to handle slimy little cowards like this. He threw his shoulders back, put on his drug cartel face— _your blowfish face_ —and got right up in the guy’s face.

“It doesn’t matter who I am.” Jesse said through clenched teeth. “What matters is that you’re going to get the hell out of here.”

“You gonna make me?”

“I’m not gonna have to.” Jesse didn’t back up even a millimeter as the guy tried to push forward and intimidate him. “You’re gonna run outta here with your tail between your legs like the little bitch you are.”

He kept his face impassive, channeling Mike, as adrenaline surged through his veins. He wanted the guy to keep challenging him. He wanted a fight. He probably wouldn’t _win_ a fight, since the guy was bigger than he was and probably didn’t have old torture-wounds that still hurt sometimes. Maybe it would be better if the guy backed down.

_He’ll back down,_ Mr. White assured him. _He’s a bully. Bullies back down when you stand up to them._

Finally, _finally_ , the guy dropped his eyes to the ground. He took a step back. Jesse kept his tough face on for good measure.

“You’re probably not any good anyway.” The guy sneered at the girl as he walked by her. Jesse made an angry sound in the back of his throat and the guy kept moving. After his footsteps crunching on the gravel faded away, Jesse turned to the girl.

“Thanks.” She said, looking apprehensive. Jesse shrugged, still feeling the hot rush of triumph in his blood.

“Yo, you, uh, you gonna get home alright?” He asked, already taking a few steps back. She was looking at him kind of warily and he wanted her to know he wasn’t after her like that dick.

She cocked her head to the side, assessing, then licked her lips. “Maybe you should come with me.”

Jesse had not planned to sleep with her. He hadn’t. He really thought he was just doing his good-citizen duty in driving home and making sure she got there safely. And then before he knew what was happening, they were making out in his car and they were getting out of the car and making out on the way to her door and then they were inside the door and making out on the way to her bedroom and then…well, then she’d taken her shirt off and Jesse wasn’t really thinking anymore.

It was after she’d tugged his shirt off that his brain kicked back into gear, too late. She’d run her hand over his bare chest and stopped, then she’d looked closer and gasped. His stomach, his sides, his back, his shoulders—a crisscrossing map of scars was laid out across his torso. He bit his lip and looked away.

“Maybe I should…” He reached for his shirt. She reached out and ran just the tip of her finger down the biggest scar, a jagged line stretching from just under his armpit to his hip. His breath came out shaking and he closed his eyes, raising his thumb to his mouth to bite at the nail as she traced the zig-zags with her finger.

She was whispering shit in his ear, whispering how he didn’t have to tell her what had happened, and she probably thought it was sexy, thought he was some kind of damaged, special prize— _you are damaged, a little_ —and he was suddenly so tired he just wanted to leave.

_Be a man,_ Mr. White whispered, and it pissed Jesse off. He fucked her, and it was fine, but he wasn’t as into it as he should’ve been, could’ve been, had he not been so ruined. She didn’t seem to notice, and she was loud, and back in the before time he would’ve found that mind-blowingly hot—Jane had been loud, and he’d loved it—but now he just wanted to get it over with so she’d shut up.

She didn’t offer him breakfast or even coffee in the morning, wouldn’t even meet his eyes as he pulled his clothes on, reading her easily enough to know asking for a shower was out of the question.

“Thanks.” She called to his back as he walked to his car. “For…everything.”

He cried all the way home.


	8. Chapter 8

Sometimes Jesse gave himself a breakdown day. He tried not to let it happen more than once a month, and it was only allowed on the weekends, when he didn’t have to work. He’d stay in bed all day, usually crying off and on throughout the day, and shut out the world. This, he found, was harder to do without the help of his favorite illicit substances, but he could still manage it pretty well.

But he’d forgotten he was supposed to go to his brother’s soccer game. It was indoor season now, because apparently even the winter chill couldn’t keep Jake from the soccer field. Jesse admired his dedication but worried his brother was pushing himself too hard to please their parents. Jesse had shut down when he’d realized he couldn’t satisfy them, but Jake went the other direction, hiding his stress and doing too many things to make them happy.

One thing he refused to do was break a promise to his brother, so he dragged himself out of bed, stood under the water in the shower for maybe a minute, and pulled on random clothes. He was so incredibly tired and extra cold. He put on one of his old sweatshirts, a few sizes too big and sporting a skull on the front, shaking his head a little at his former self. He could feel that he wasn’t completely in control, but he’d had a lifetime of broken promises from their parents and he wasn’t going to do that to Jake.

He was jittery as he parked and he dropped his keys on the ground as he walked in because his hands were shaking. _You should be in bed,_ Mr. White warned him. He shook his head. He wouldn’t break a promise.

The sports-plex was loud and it set Jesse even more on edge. The chaos may have been mostly controlled, but it was chaos nonetheless, and Jesse really hadn’t prepped himself enough for such an outing. Loud, enclosed, crowded places required at least an hour of amping himself up, and he’d been asleep less than fifteen minutes ago. He scanned the crowd, wondering if his parents were there, but didn’t see them. He stood helplessly, wondering where to sit.

“Down in front, buddy!” Some asshole yelled, making Jesse jump. He hunched his shoulders and blindly grabbed a spot on the front row of the bleachers. He took a few deep breaths and, when he felt calmer, looked up to watch the game.

Jake had explained the basic rules of soccer to Jesse multiple times over the last few months, but Jesse still struggled, having no first-hand experience of the game. When he’d been in elementary school, the games at recess were touch-football, tag, and basketball. He’d never played soccer.

The same guy who’d yelled at Jesse was shouting shit at the kids on the field, and Jesse had to clench his jaw to keep his anger in check. _Ignore him,_ Mr. White advised. _He’s just mad his kid’s on the bench._

And he was. He was being very vocal about it, and Jesse was trying to block him out. But he kept yelling obscenities, even with a bunch of kids running around under the bleachers, probably bored of being dragged to older siblings’ tournaments.

_Don’t get involved._ Mr. White told him. _Just watch the game._

“Get number 5!” The guy bellowed, and Jesse felt himself frowning. Jake was number 5. Why was the guy yelling at the kids to get their own teammate? He jumped a little at the sound of a rattling chain and looked around, eyes wide and breathing hard. There was a chain blocking off a portion of the gym and a bunch of kids were playing with it. The sound of chains always made his stomach twist.

“Number 5!” The asshole yelled again. “Look at that skinny little bitch!”

Jesse was clenching his teeth so hard he thought they might break. Deep breaths, he reminded himself. The court-ordered shrink had told him anger management problems often accompanied PTSD and had taught Jesse a few breathing techniques to control himself.

But then Jesse saw Jake and could tell his little brother could hear this guy’s criticisms, and his deep breaths weren’t cutting it. He couldn’t handle someone calling any kid names, but his own little brother?

Just then, Jesse spotted his parents—across the gym. He was sitting on the wrong side, the side for the other team. He groaned and got up to cut across to the other side. He dropped his keys again.

“Hey, buddy, seriously—what the fuck’s your problem?” The guy yelled at him. “You retarded or something? Move it!”

_Don’t let him talk to you that way,_ Mr. White growled in his ear. Jesse remembered Mr. White had a big problem with the “retard” word, probably because of his son. Jesse felt his hands ball into fists but refused to turn around and look at the guy. He was not going to get in a fight at a kids’ soccer game. He started walking away, moving a little slow because of his anger and his fatigue.

“What, big man, can’t take it?” The guy taunted, and Jesse could feel other people’s eyes on him, too. His shoulders jumped to his ears. _Don’t listen, don’t listen, don’t listen._ He tried chanting it to keep his mind off the guy.

Then he heard the bleachers creaking.

“You just gonna walk away?” The guy was following him. Jesse wanted to scream. He was trying so hard to be a regular person and it was other people who kept getting in his way. One of the teams took a time out and Jesse bit his lip, hard. He kept walking.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you, pussy!”

_Pussy._

Jesse hated that word too much to ignore. He stopped and slowly turned around. The guy was big and ugly and Jesse hated him on sight. He had a disdainful sneer on his face and Jesse felt his blood boiling.

“Jesse?” Jake had noticed the commotion from his team’s huddle and was calling to him from across the turf. Jesse swallowed hard and turned back around to keep walking. He raised his chin at Jake to signal that he was okay. Jake’s eyes were big and full of worry.

Jesse noticed his father stand up, concerned, and Jesse held up a hand to keep him from coming over. He could handle this. He kept his eyes on his parents. _If I can just get to them I’ll be okay._

“Oh, you’re here for that little bitch!” The guy yelled, laughing. “No wonder! Being a pussy must run in the family.”

Jesse locked eyes with Jake. Jake shook his head, asking Jesse not to bother with the guy, and Jesse nodded. He could keep his cool for Jake. Do it for Jake. Do it do it do it ignore it don’t listen.

The guy was still yelling, but Jesse was getting far enough away that he couldn’t quite make out the words. He was shaking. It was taking every ounce of concentration he had to stay calm. Jake went back to the game and Jesse kept looking at his parents. The referee’s whistle, so shrill and loud, bouncing off the walls, made him jump. He couldn’t get a deep breath. His heart was racing and he worried for a second he was having a heart attack. Cold sweat was breaking out on his forehead. Those kids kept rattling that chain. So many people were yelling—yelling on the field, yelling watching the action, kids screaming as they played. And the guy kept jeering at his back.

It was the soccer ball that set him off.

It came sailing through the air, a wide shot on the goal, and Jesse had been focusing so hard on getting to his parents and blocking out the sound of the chain that he hadn’t noticed it coming. It hit him in the back of the head and that was it—he snapped.

A harsh scream tore at his throat and he whirled around, lashing out blindly. He could see people running at him and he tensed immediately. His hands, balled into fists, came up to protect himself and he was ready to throw punches. He could no longer see his surroundings. _Hot desert air, cold concrete floor. He can hear the laughter and encouragement of Todd’s uncle and his friends as Todd kicks him over and over. His blood is warm as it trickles out of his nose. All he can do is curl into a ball defensively, his hands shackled the way they are. He hopes they’ll just kill him this time. ___

He won’t go down without fighting this time.

He can hear someone coming at him and he cocks his fist. He comes back to himself to see his fist an inch from his little brother’s terrified face. Jake’s lips are moving but all Jesse can hear is a ringing in his ears. He stops himself from hitting his brother, but only barely. He can feel hot tears sliding down his cheeks, and he’s shuddering. He can’t breathe and his head is swimming.

_Breathe, son,_ Mr. White’s voice is soothing, soft in Jesse’s ears. _Just take deep breaths._ Jesse tries to do as he’s told, because Mr. White knows what to do, Mr. White always knows, but it’s like his throat is blocked off and won’t let air in. The edges of Jake’s scared face start to blur. _You’re passing out,_ Mr. White informs him, as if this hasn’t happened enough times during Jesse’s captivity for him to recognize the sensation. _You have to breathe._

“I’m trying,” Jesse choked out, but he knew it was a losing battle. A second later he crumpled to the ground, and he was still conscious enough to feel the pain of his head hitting the ground.

_Are you going to wake up?_ It was Mr. White. He was standing in front of Jesse, just the way Jesse remembered—shaved head, goatee, glasses. He didn’t have his Heisenberg hat on and Jesse was glad. In Jesse’s nightmares, the hat meant he was trying to kill Jesse and no hat meant he was saving him.

_I don’t want to._ Jesse answered. _Can’t I just sleep, Mr. White? Please?_

_Well, what do you think happens if you do?_ Mr. White had his teacher face on and Jesse rolled his eyes.

_I don’t have to be tired anymore._ Jesse specifically used his snottiest voice to indicate he knew Mr. White was looking for a different answer.

_What about your family, Jesse?_

_They got along just fine without me for a long time._ Jesse started crying and Mr. White rubbed his shoulders.

_Do you want Todd to win?_

Jesse opened his eyes.

“Jesse!” Jake was kneeling over him. He was still on the floor at the soccer game. He’d interrupted everything. Before he could move, a paramedic was looming over him, asking Jake to step aside.

“I’m fine.” Jesse said, but the paramedic ignored him and shined a flashlight in his eyes.

“Let’s get him to the hospital.” The paramedic said to another one who’d shown up.

“Hey, I’m fine,” Jesse repeated, louder, squinting. This was humiliating.

“Sir, you’ve had a panic attack, and you hit your head when you fell. It would be a good idea to go to the hospital to get checked out.”

“He’ll go.” His mom piped in. “Jesse, please.” She added softly, and he saw that she had tears in her eyes. One more time he’d made her cry.

“Fine.” He sighed. He refused to let them pick him up and put him on the backboard but climbed into the ambulance on his own. Jake started to get into the ambulance.

“Yo, you should finish your game.” Jesse said tiredly. “I’m fine, Jake. I promise. Go back to the field.”

Jake bit his lip. “You don’t want me to come?”

Jesse wasn’t sure if Jake knew that was the right button to push and was manipulating him or if he really felt that way, but it worked either way.

“We’ll meet you there.” His dad said.

Jesse hadn’t been to a doctor since the whole thing with Todd and his uncle. He’d been to the shrink, sure, and he’d had to pass a few pee tests to prove he was clean during his probation, but it had been a few years since he’d donned a gown and hopped onto a table. He had a brief flashback of his hospital stay after Tuco beat the shit out of him and then again after Schrader beat the shit out of him, but he quickly threw those thoughts away. He needed to stay present.

Jesse succumbed to X-rays because his mom was still teary-eyed, and he wondered about her the same way he’d wondered about Jake. And then he wondered about himself and how he had a hard time believing anyone’s emotions were genuine anymore.

The X-ray tech’s face grew more and more alarmed with each passing X-ray, and Jesse felt like shrugging at him and saying, “Yeah, well.”

The doctor looked troubled when she came in. “Mr. Pinkman, were you a stunt athlete of some kind?” She asked, looking at the pictures of his bones on the screen. Jesse laughed even though the reality of the situation wasn’t even a little bit funny.

“Stunt athlete?” He asked.

“Almost all of your ribs show remodeling, as well as several bones in your face.” She didn’t mention the scars all over his body, though her eyes lingered on the one on his face.

“I guess I make a good punching bag.” He said blithely, hoping he could turn the charm on to distract her. She frowned at him.

“You don’t have a concussion.” She said. He nodded. He knew that already. He knew what a concussion felt like. He didn’t have one. He was fine.

“But I think you should see a counselor about the panic attacks.”

He grimaced. “I’m fine.” He insisted, prompting another frown.

“Your bodily reactions to stress would indicate otherwise.” She said with a raised eyebrow and Jesse felt a distant appreciation for her sauciness.

“Look, I’ve already been to a shrink, alright? I’m pretty fucked up. I know that. But I can deal with it.”

_Can you?_ Even Mr. White was against him, and he was a fucking _figment of his imagination._ Did that mean Jesse’s subconscious knew he wasn’t fine, or Jesse just knew Mr. White would have doubted him? He stopped thinking about it.

“Legally, I can’t tell your family what we’ve discussed.” The doctor told him, her eyebrows creased together in a frown. “You’re not a minor, so I have no way of making you see a psychiatrist.”

“Yeah, right on.”

“But I think you should.” She continued as if he hadn’t interrupted her with an asshole comment. Jesse didn’t say anything and didn’t look at her and she finally left. He had his pants on and was pulling his shirt over his head when his family came in. He tried to yank the shirt down fast enough to hide his scars from them, but his mom’s loud gasp told him he’d failed. He stared his family down, daring them to ask.

No one said anything while they drove back to the sports complex so Jesse could get his car. His mom fussed a little over whether he could drive, and Jesse hid his trembling hands from her so he could assert he was fine.

“Jesse.” His mom started as he was about to close the door on his family’s car, but it wasn’t her worried voice. It was a voice he was very, very used to—it was her disappointed voice. “You worked so hard to beat this. You promised you’d stay clean.” Her voice was shaking and it took Jesse almost a whole minute to figure out what she was saying.

“I _am_ clean.” He said, not even bothering to hide the hurt in his voice. They didn’t believe him? He thought of all the times he’d insisted he was clean when he wasn’t. It was probably smart not to believe him.

_But you’ve been clean for so long._ Mr. White was back on his side now. _They should have more faith in you._

“How many times have we heard that?” His dad broke into his thoughts angrily. “What is it this time?”

Jesse clenched his teeth and ran a finger over the scar on his cheek. It had become something of a nervous habit of his.

“I’m clean.” He insisted again. He said it quietly, without heat. Both his parents made noises of disbelief, and Jesse had no fire in him, no fight. He was exhausted and drained and scarred and hurt. He opened his mouth to explain himself, but how could he do that? Nothing would be good enough for them, unless maybe he told them _everything_ , and there was no way that was happening. He just shook his head and closed the door, not looking back as he got in his car and drove home alone, cold and tired and trembling.


End file.
